Regrets
by Mycroft-mione
Summary: "Look, it's not that I'm not happy for them. Of course I am! Especially, after all that they've been through: the night at the Bristol South pool, the fall... they deserve something good to result of it all. And they make a pretty good couple too, I suppose." AU, unrequited Sherstrade.


**This is it! I've been working on this fic for almost a week now (wow, the time really flew) and now I'm done! It originated from an idea I thought of in my 'Day Of Coming Up With Story Ideas', and is the first of them to be done. Now I'd better stop writing so you can read, and review please!**

* * *

Look, it's not that I'm not happy for them.

Of course I am! Especially, after all that they've been through: the night at the Bristol South pool, _the fall_... they deserve something good to result of it all. And they make a pretty good couple too, I suppose. There's John, who can handle Sherlock's...Sherlock-ness better than _anyone_, and there's Sherlock, who, well...I'll work on that one.

But I was so close, so many times!

* * *

It was a fortnight into May and we at the Yard were desperate. The Vuitton case─a triple murder. One of the men said he had heard of a bloke who knew everything. He said he was the best shot we had of getting Vuitton in chains, so I called the Baker Street flat─it was an unlisted number, took a bit of doing─and his landlady picked up.

"DI Greg Lestrade speaking," I said.

"All right, tell me. What has he done now?" she answered.

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock! Did he steal from the morgue again? That's what he used to do in Bristol, you know. Gave them all quite a turn─"

"No, ma'am, but he's why I'm calling," I told her, surprised.

"I'll put him on, then," said the woman.

There was a scuffle as she put down the phone, and her voice calling the man's name. They bickered in the background until finally an exasperated-sounding baritone voice came on.

"What do you want?" he said.

"Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" I asked. "This is DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, we need of your assistance regarding a series of─"

"Finally! Thought you'd never ask!" he crowed. And then hung up.

When he showed up at the crime scene (without asking me where it was, I might add), I'm sure I stared at him longer than it took for him to deduce my entire life story. His sharp greenish-grey eyes were mesmerizing in their darting movements, taking into notice everything about my being, and our surroundings. His pink lips were parted slightly, as if he was taking a silent breath while he studied me. His hair... a mess of adorable brown curls that opened into a part on the side. And those cheekbones...

I was jolted out of my reverie when Sherlock spoke for the first time, lecturing to the others about my past like a tenured professor. I frowned at what he was saying, but couldn't deny the complete truth of it all─until he got my name wrong. I corrected him irritably ("My name is Greg, not Graham!"), but immediately after I felt like I wanted to take it back, and tell him the truth about how I felt. He didn't mean it...he was only joking...I really did like him...

He interrupted my thoughts.

"Damn it! I always miss something," he grumbled.

* * *

A lot happened in between that particular case, and this next day. I met John, of course, and we got to be good mates. Anderson joined the force, and so did Donovan. But nothing quite exceptional, so I'll skip to a good many months later, and our Christmas party that John held at 221B.

I was standing by the fireplace, drinking from a tall glass (just punch, relax) and watching the party. There had been an awkward moment before, when Molly came all dolled up and holding a gift and Sherlock embarrassed her, but she got over it and was now talking to Mrs. Hudson enthusiastically. I figured it was a girl thing. I shifted my gaze to Sherlock, who was hunched over a laptop, probably working one some case─even though we hadn't sent him anything above a 'four' for a while. I tried to catch his eyes for a minute, but he was too wrapped up in his screen. _Fine_, I thought. _Be like that_.

John quieted us down and started to talk.

"All right, everyone. Just wanted to say, well, thanks for coming...and well, what time is it? I...I mean...this is a party! Are you going to dance or what?"

He sounded shy and unsure, but the women laughed and started pairing people up. John immediately went for Jeannette, his current girlfriend, and she smiled and curtsied ironically. He laughed and turned on the radio, Sherlock having already exhausted his meager portfolio of Christmas violin music.

I realized that right in front of me was an opportunity and I had better not let it pass by. I started to reach out for Sherlock's chair, hoping...pleading... that he would dance with me. I didn't care what anybody thought! But suddenly, as I was hardly an arm's length away from him, Molly bumped into my shoulder and apologized, anxiously. Then I understood that she wanted us to dance, as she must still be unhappy with Sherlock over the incident earlier. I consented, taking her arm, after one last mournful glance behind us to where my crush was sitting, unaware.

That night, I drowned myself in liquor, cursing at my incompetence. I simply wasn't confident enough to ask him out.

* * *

The third time that I missed my chance at Sherlock was a few weeks later. John was off working at the University of Oxford on one of their pending cases that Sherlock had deemed a "three", unworthy of personal perusal, and that he naturally sent John to in his place. I had just phoned the flat the day before about the murder of a young society woman, whose killer we believed to have visited 221B while Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were out shopping. I flagged down a cab, got in, and raced over to meet Sherlock there before he tampered with the evidence, fought a random foreign dignitary, or left.

When I arrived, he was nowhere to be found in the sitting room or kitchen. I was a little worried (after all, it is _Sherlock_ I'm talking about) but I didn't want to intrude, it not being _my_ flat. I called out his name.

"Sherlock?"

There was no answer, only an odd clunking sound. I walked quietly through the flat, hoping to make any possible intruder think I had gone. I rounded the corner of the hall, and reached Sherlock's bedroom door. There was another clunk. _Is he shagging, or something?_ I thought. Then I remembered who I was talking about. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be...

I knocked on the door firmly with the side of my fist, three times. _Thump, thump, thump._ I yelled through the wooden panels:

"This is your last chance. Come on, Sherlock, it's Greg from the Yard. Greg Lestrade. I'm here for the evidence, only I supposed you must already know where it is, and I need to ask you about it anyway! So let me in!"

He didn't answer. That was enough for me. I through privacy right out the window...not that Sherlock would ever call me out on it─he barely knew the word's meaning, even though John had to "_explain_" it to him almost daily. So I grabbed the handle and twisted it viciously. The knob turned without any difficulty.

I swung it open and looked inside, worried. The room was a mess, to say the least. My shoe crunched on a piece of glass. _From an experiment,_ I assumed. I quickly searched the room with my eyes and found Sherlock lying on top of his bed, wearing his dressing gown over his purple button-up shirt─_how I loved that shirt_─and black jeans. The only problem with that picture: He was unresponsive. His eyes were closed.

I feared the worst. _Had he been attacked? Poisoned? Knocked out by a blow to the head? John would have known what to do... Was his attacker still in the room?_

I straightened, concerned for my own safety, but then leaned down again by impulse and shook his arm violently. "Sherlock?!" I said urgently. He stirred below me.

"...and iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium..." he murmured drowsily. Then his eyes focused and he saw me. "John? No...it's you." He sprang off the bed, took off the dressing gown, and smoothed his shirt arrogantly.

"I don't recall having invited you into my room, Gavin," he said crossly.

"I was worried!" I said. "You were... sleeping? John says you never sleep!" I told him.

"Well, then, you don't have to tell him, do you?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Fine," I answered with a sigh, my emotions still running high after my unwarranted scare. I bit my lip and... suddenly felt a longing for the idiot, I did. I looked into his eyes, smiled sadly, leaned forward, and...

Sherlock turned away smoothly. "By the way, there's a cut under your left ear. Do be more careful when you're shaving." Then he grabbed his magnifier from his cluttered side table and headed into the sitting room.

I rubbed my temple with my fingers. _Ugh. So he notices that, but doesn't care about the rest? ...the idiot! Bet he doesn't care at all about me. John's the only person he thinks of, it seems!_

I mumbled to myself bitterly and stood up to follow him. _Three strikes and I'm out. I give up_.

The next day we solved the case (well, _he_ did) and John came back from Oxford.

We all had lunch together.

Sherlock was watching John the entire time.

* * *

Well, that's it. I guess I should shut up─I think they want me to do the best man speech soon. That won't be so bad; there's so much material to draw from with John and Sherlock!

But later, tell me what _you_ think, Anderson. I'm curious.

**A/N: So...how was it? If you're wondering, the whole thing was spoken by Greg to Anderson at Johnlock's wedding, while nothing else was happening; however, Greg was sort of reliving it in his mind as he talked. If you review, care to tell me if the -mostly normal but slightly weird- format was good? Even if you don't, please review! -Myc**


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